


Apolune

by illegible



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, In a break from form I am winging this, Second Person, Soft Moonman Content™, Unrated for now because maybe later it will have sex?, pray4me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:27:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22183294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/pseuds/illegible
Summary: The Warrior of Light returns to Amaurot as it fades. Elidibus is waiting.
Relationships: Elidibus/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt from JanuaryBlue!

Amaurot lies tranquil as it fades beneath the waves.

Fades, you think, is a cleaner word than dies. Cleaner than the axe you and Ardbert threw together piercing Emet-Sel--no. Piercing _Hades_ as he strove with all he had in hopes of his world’s resurrection.

There was one moment, as it happened, that you could see him. Not the monstrous form he clothed himself in. Not his preferred likeness as Solus zos Galvus, wrapped in velvet and furs.

Light on dark like a flash. Like lightning. His gold eyes wide in shock. Lips parted by pain too swift for sound.

All you could think, in the brief instant when he was visible (sharp lines and angles you nearly remembered) was that he had no right to look so kind.

_How could he?_

One needs a bond of some sort for betrayal. And despite everything you not only feel it, you almost forgive it.

His smile at the end was a relief.

Hyacinth and brine and decay. It smells like autumn by the sea.

His trees are dying. Your boots come soft, muted, solitary beneath the dim light of streetlamps and the rolling waves.

His shades, ephemeral as they are, have not forgotten you. Their attention is a fragile, wavering thing wound in endless cycles around the final days. Nonetheless they smile to see this small, strange child in their midst.

When you ask their names, they answer.

Dwarfed by the loved ones of a man you’ve slain, by the phantom city he treasured with all his heart, you find Elidibus with his back to you.

When Lahabrea beheld Hydaelyn after his defeat at the Praetorium, he had gazed upon Her with awe and horror and something like grief. You had not recognized it then. You recognize it now in his sole remaining colleague.

He does not turn to face you. The specters here prove soundless beyond speech and your steps are not so subtle as that.

“Have you no words for me?” you ask, with no small amount of bitterness.

The Emissary’s head barely jerks back, like he’s been struck from behind. Perhaps his breath catches and perhaps it doesn’t. You are not close enough to tell.

Pale robes. Spines at the shoulders emulating wings. Clawed fingertips.

“No,” breathes Elidibus, “I have not.”

He won’t look at you. His gaze is transfixed on those beautiful, delicate, empty skyscrapers.

The Ascian attacked you on your knees, once. He wore the face of your cruelest enemy and he did not hesitate.

You press your lips, exhale softly through your nose, and walk slowly to stand beside him.

Beneath his mask something shines. You make a point of not looking either.

“It was quick,” you tell him. As if your clipped tone might offer comfort. 

(You owe _nothing_ , but it is something you’d offer nonetheless. For the lingering ache of this place.)

Movement from the corner of your eye. A mouth drawn taut. Hands clenched.

“That depends,” answers Elidibus. “One might argue he was dying long before your blade.”

The fists unfurl again in pieces.

“Emet-Selch has been broken since the Sundering,” he tells you without turning, and though he does not raise his voice or hasten its meter there is an undercurrent of anger you can’t ignore. “Were it up to me, your paths would never have crossed.”

You wonder if Elidibus’ residence lies here, too. You wonder if the faces of the dead are familiar to him.

“I understand.” It is such a simple thing to say. Were Hades here, you don’t doubt he would deny a sundered creature like you is capable of understanding. Elidibus has no reply. “Even so, I had to stop him.” A beat. “...He seemed almost at peace in his last moments.”

“As one might expect,” says the Ascian, and this time it is his turn for bitterness. “There was nothing he could do. Naught required of him. The Ardor beyond his grasp, but home…”

Now, you see him. His arms remain at either side, his eyes on your surroundings. Though his posture remains poised as he’s ever kept it there is a tremor in his shoulders. His fingertips.

“If there was another way,” you say quietly, evenly as you can manage, “I would have taken it. We tried.”

Elidibus laughs. It is a soft and terrible thing.

“So did we,” he answers. His words are tinny in the dim. “So did Nabriales. Igeyorhm. Lahabrea. Emet-Selch... so did all of them. So did Amaurot.” He turns to you at last. “This world demands sacrifice to endure. Whether the necessity comes from Zodiark or your Mother, one side must be extinguished entirely for the other to exist. And I…”

“Elidibus.”

He seems to meet your gaze, eyes obscured in shadow. Not much taller than you at all, though you expect once he would have towered above like the shades themselves.

Your hand is bare. Though Mikazuki rests familiar on your back, you’ve forsaken most of your heavier plate. Foreign to this place, Ala Mhigo envelops your body sure as memory envelops him.

The gesture you would extend stays suspended between you both. Careful, unthreatening.

You have not forgotten how he retaliated against Minfilia when she tried to touch him.

“May I?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer at first, only studies you as he always has. Expression unreadable.

“Do you mean to make an offering of me too?” he asks, in what is little more than a whisper. Harsher than his features would imply. “A gift to your goddess and the destruction She’s wrought?”

“Not today,” you tell him. “Today, if we can I would shed my calling with yours. There will be time enough for death. For this moment… might we play at peace?”

He does not waver, watches you still. At his side, fingers curl to his palm.

“I never knew you grieved,” you admit eventually. “I regret it ever came to that.”

Slowly, slightly, he inclines his head.

You trace, cautiously, across the border of his mask. Push deeper past his hood to find hair drawn back, fine and clean. Travel downward. Catch his jaw and chin.

“Emissary,” you say, knowing it is farther still from his true name, “why didn’t you say anything?”

You can see him weighing his answer.

“There were times, in the distant past, when we did,” he replies slowly. He allows you to continue your exploration of his features, moving neither in nor away. “Where would you suppose that led?”

“Not success,” you say, knowing it must be more complicated than that. After considering further you add, “...I can hardly change my course, even knowing. If there was some means of changing yours--”

“No,” says Elidibus, and this time his tone is gentle. “There is not. Too much lies at stake.”

You find a loose strand, wind it slowly around your finger. Whiter than your own. “Have any sought to remove your tempering?”

“It could not be allowed,” he says. “Hades saw the attempt itself as an insult.”

You breathe out through your nose.

“What a shame.”

In increments you meet the other side of his face. Tilt him toward you.

Elidibus’ expression remains inscrutable even now. Especially now.

“Excuse me if I presume,” you murmur. “I only knew him a short time, but even so I… I can’t forget. And where I never wondered about the others before, now I realize these strangers must have been…” 

Carefully (so carefully) you slide his mask lower on his face. Expose his forehead and, just rising on the balls of your feet, press your lips to his forehead. Cover it once more.

This time, with a sigh like wind over reeds, something gives.

“I am the last,” says Elidibus. “If you strike me down here, none can stand to oppose you.”

“Maybe,” you reply. “But not today. As I said.”

He doesn’t tell you the depths of his grief. He doesn’t speak of his regrets.

But when his mouth finds yours, soft and damp and tasting like the ocean itself, he doesn’t have to.


	2. Chapter 2

What he gives is so light it could be mistaken for chaste. 

The Emissary of Zodiark is restrained in every movement, every word, every expression you do not see. Though he lingers he doesn’t press you. Doesn’t retreat when he lets go.

You find yourself searching the shadowed holes that hide his eyes as if they will offer some clue. Some answer.

They don’t. But you’re not sure, after a moment, that he so much as breathes beneath your scrutiny.

It’s tempting to ask if he, too, feels lonely.

You kiss him back instead.

A moment taken slow, and his lips give to yours. The way he follows is halting, hesitant.

“I-“ escapes, and surely there is more he would tell you but it sounds like an excuse. So you interrupt, tease your way forward until with a muffled hitch he lets your tongue inside.

Hands hover at your ribs. His mask brushes your cheek. There is a moment of soundless tension when you almost wonder if this hurts him.

His heart beats like the wings of a bird. 

You catch him delicately between your teeth.

***

It seems natural, in the moment, to thread your fingers over his.

*** 

“Not here” he says thickly, in a breath he steals for himself.

It’s the first time you’ve caught him so unsettled. What skin you can see is flushed and there is an unsteadiness to his voice that makes you wonder.

“Where then?” you ask. In a brazen instant your free hand tugs away his cowl.

His hair is as you felt it, tied back. Slightly mussed from recent attentions. Moonlight pale and longer than your own.

Jaw slack. Though you do not see his eyes widen it would be no surprise to find them so. You have, instinct tells you, done something that may have proved shocking in its intimacy to the Ancients.

He exhales gradually. Brings his free hand tight around the encroaching wrist.

When shadows twist and wind about you both, he remains a stark figure against them throughout. Unfading, unshakably present.

It feels like falling.

***

The Royal Menagerie is empty around you both. Cast silver under Menphina’s light.

_Zodiark’s reflection._

The air here is warm—blood from your battle with Shinryu, from Zenos’ triumph-in-suicide, long since returned to the earth. At a glance none would imagine the flowers here have gorged themselves on the remains of beasts and men.

You land, stumbling, with a splash. The pool shines like a mirror. Elidibus closes his grip on your waist and drags you to him roughly, his face inches from your own and yet concealed.

“I should _despise_ you,” he says without raising his voice. This time his words come too sharp to waver. His hold contracts. “Our suffering, our sacrifice, their deaths at your hands—“

You don’t need to say anything at all. His jaw has gone rigid, mouth drawn thin with distress. “Am I not allowed this? Must I take you, too, into account? _How much more must I give up before it makes any difference?”_

The force he holds you with leaves his knuckles white, your forearm shaking. It hurts.

You don’t lower your gaze. You don’t flinch. You study the knife’s edge holding his control in-check and make your choice.

The tilt of a wrist. Your finger catches his mask and, together with your remaining hand, you nudge it loose altogether.

***

The faint plunk of surface tension breaking. It glides back and forth as it sinks.

At last, Elidibus wears loss naked on his face.

When you trace his cheek, skin no colder under your touch than any man’s, he inhales sharply.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper to him. “I truly am.”

There is no sound as his hold slides loose. As his expression contorts with pain no Emissary can voice. He sinks to his knees before you, heedless as the water overwhelms him. His forehead comes to rest against your stomach in absolute surrender.

It feels like you debate a lifetime before bringing your hands to rest, gently, against his back.

Only then does the sole survivor of Amaurot permit himself to weep.


	3. Chapter 3

You know in the spasms of his lungs, the wet on your skin. He is so quiet it almost seems as if he has been robbed of speech entirely.

One hand finds the base of his skull, runs back and forth. The other strokes open-palmed between his shoulder blades. 

His lips move against you. Silent, steady. As if in prayer or recitation. It takes a moment for you to realize what escapes him is a series of names.

***

This is when you kneel, when you bring your arms around him. When you undo the tie binding his hair that you can more easily weave yourself through.

Elidibus’ mouth presses to find the crook of your neck. When he holds you in-turn there is a numbness to it as if he’s forgotten how to perform such gestures.

It strikes you that he will know, can’t avoid knowing, that the enemy who anchors him is not enough. Not for his tempering. When he seeks you regardless it betrays something splintered in a way that would be sacrilege to speak aloud.

“They were all who remained,” he whispers at last, barely audible even this close, “and I failed them too.”

***

In your arms, he struggles to stop himself. To pretend he is and always has been empty. That there is nothing to escape.

Reality proves the opposite.

Without being told you recognize eons of pressure forcing wide the fracture you’ve made in him. In every pause he tries, desperately, to stop breathing.

This is not about you. Only part of it is about Emet-Selch.

He is shaking so badly now your very bones tremble.

 _“Help me,”_ gasps Elidibus as he claws at you like a predatory beast as he is forced to admit he overflows as he tries to convince himself he is here with another person and not what his god dictates, _“please…”_

You nod, eyes burning, and know there is naught to be done.

***

Thumbs hook your skirt, drag it low. You undo every fasten of his you find. The robe falls loose around his shoulders. You are cast gray under the night sky but Elidibus proves radiant beyond compare.

Fumbling with the remaining articles, with shoes and gloves and other adornments, you dart between his arms. Kiss him again, again, again.

Mouth. Cheek. Throat. Chest. Every exposed patch of skin, every empty space he’s left on a body stripped of history. 

Bare before one another you find yourself tilting him back, down, into the shallow pool that surrounds you both.

 _“I’m with you.”_ Your whisper against his lips. Elidibus’ hair streams gleaming beneath him. He latches hard enough to bruise, one knee cradling your hip even as he arches inward.

Elidibus snarls, commands or pleads for you to convince him. He needs more than can be given but this doesn't keep him from tasting every inch of you in reach. When you sink your teeth your nails your aether into flesh this messenger betrays through the hitch of his breath that despite every instinct he does _need_ this.

And maybe you do, too.

**Author's Note:**

> As _another_ break from form, I'm doing some author's notes on this one! I was very kindly invited into a discord for FFXIV fanwriters/readers. It's been very inspiring and all kinds of fun, so if anybody would like to pop by you can find it [here](https://discord.gg/bNaqRtc)! ^^


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